


Strands

by lucymonster



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Banter, F/F, Hair Braiding, Hair Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-20 22:25:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17630837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucymonster/pseuds/lucymonster
Summary: 'Don't take this the wrong way,' says Romanoff, 'but you look like shit.'Apparently this is her version of flirting.





	Strands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GlassesOfJustice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlassesOfJustice/gifts).



‘Don’t take this the wrong way,’ says Romanoff, dangling her legs over the side of Sharon’s desk, ‘but you look like shit.’

Sharon drops her handbag in its spot beside her intray. ‘I ran out of time to fix my hair this morning,’ she says, easing her stiff body into her swivel-chair and swivelling it as far away from Romanoff as she can. ‘I have this report to finish, see.’

It’s not that she doesn’t like Romanoff. Really, it’s not. The water-cooler has never been Sharon’s turf – she’s not interested in the rumours or the gossip or the petty workplace jealousies that spawn them. She comes to the office to do her job. Earlier this morning, her job happened to involve finding a would-be assassin outside her asset’s apartment. Her whole body aches from their ensuing professional dispute.

Right now, her job involves writing up the incident report so that anyone who questions her use of force will have detailed information on exactly where they can shove it. She’s not in the mood to deal with Fury’s pet protege messing up her cubicle and passing judgement on her hair. That’s assuming Fury wasn’t the one who sent Romanoff in the first place: maybe he’s already gotten wind of the latest round of hospital admissions and the critical status of Sharon’s assassin.

The guy was carrying a Barrett M82 fitted with a silencer. He meant business. Taking him into peaceful custody was off the table.

Unlike Romanoff. Romanoff is very much still  _ on  _ the table, and Sharon doesn’t understand why.

‘You don’t want to stress too much about reports,’ Romanoff says, in a suspiciously breezy voice. She never says anything for no good reason. There’s always an angle buried somewhere. ‘Bureaucracy. Red tape. Who cares? We’re spies, not paper pushers.’

‘Thanks for the advice.’

‘You’re welcome. Any time.’

‘Speaking of time, I really don’t have much, so can you just tell me what you’re here for?’

If she weren’t so tired, or if her bruised ribs didn’t hurt so much, Sharon might have to ask herself why Romanoff’s presence bothers her so much. She’s good at tuning out distractions, always has been. But something about Romanoff makes the hairs on the back of her arms stand up. Makes her heart flutter strangely and her skin prickle with rising warmth. It’s not dislike, and it’s certainly not intimidation, but it’s also not anything Sharon stands to benefit from when she already has this much work to do. So she pulls her grumpiness tight around her like a shawl, and holds her ground as well as Romanoff’s gaze.

‘I’m just being collegial,’ says Romanoff cheerfully. ‘It’s not like you to come in looking less than perfect, so I thought I’d drop by and see if there’s anything I can do. You want a coffee? Advil? Ice pack?’

‘I’m fine, thanks.’ Less than perfect? What’s that supposed to mean?

‘You want me to fix your hair for you?’

Sharon stares.

‘I’m good with hair.’ Leaning forward from her perch on the desk, Romanoff reaches out and brushes a few strands of tousled hair out of Sharon’s face. It’s invasive and inappropriate and it makes Sharon’s whole scalp tingle. Her stomach does a funny little leap inside her. Suddenly, she doesn’t feel so irritable after all. ‘I can braid it for you, if you like. Get it out of your face.’

There’s no explanation for the sharp bolt of heat that courses through Sharon as Romanoff combs her fingers through her hair and oh-so-gently scrapes her scalp. ‘Um … sure,’ she says, but her voice comes out strangled. This is bizarre. And for some strange reason – fatigue, or maybe a light concussion from the scuffle earlier – Sharon feels compelled to go along with it. ‘That’s fine. Why not?’

The look in Romanoff’s eyes is unmistakeable: mission accomplished. Hopping nimbly down off the desk, she swivels Sharon’s chair around and stands behind her.

‘I like you, Agent Carter,’ she says as she divides Sharon’s hair into braidable strands. There are goosebumps rising on Sharon’s neck. ‘I like your work, I like your style, I think you have promise. So let me give you some advice. You always find the time to do your hair. You always show a polished face, and you never, ever let them see you ruffled.’ Leaning in to whisper right in Sharon’s ear, she adds: ‘Me, on the other hand – you can let me see you ruffled whenever you like.’

And then she starts to braid, and Sharon finds herself tilting her head back as Romanoff weaves her fight-tousled hair into in a smooth, silky rope. She doesn’t hit a single snag. It feels nice. So much nicer than it should.

‘When I’m done,’ says Romanoff, in the voice of someone who’s just scored a major victory, ‘let’s get that coffee.’

Sharon breathes out. Is this Romanoff’s version of flirting? Is it  _ working  _ on her? ‘I guess my report can wait,’ she says. 

Yeah. Looks like it’s working.


End file.
